“Will you call me Jane?” She took one of Isabella’s hands in lieu of her mother’s. “It seems only appropriate, since I believe your daughter is my son’s aunt.”
Slowly, Amey smiled and then laughed. “I guess she is.” She reached across the space between them and offered Jane her hand. “I would be glad to.”
“Would you … would you like to come with us to London? With Isabella and your other children, I mean.”
Amey hesitated and looked at Isabella, face twisting a little with indecision. “You know that people would think she’s your husband’s.”
Jane looked down at the little girl, clearly a Hamilton, even at so young an age. Amey was correct, of course, that any person who looked at the child would assume that Vincent kept a mistress under their roof. But after months of worrying about what Lord Verbury would think and how he would use things against them, Jane found that her fear of London gossip was very low. To leave Amey here because of that? Noblemen got away with worse, and Vincent was a glamourist, so he had the advantage of already being considered eccentric. It would likely be the subject of gossip for a time but not quite rise to a scandal. It might even help Isabella make a better match when the time came. Jane might be considered a fool or an object of pity, but she could not summon the necessary concern to count that a thing worth fearing. “I think that we can manage. If you want to come.”
“And have my children be free in truth? Yes. Thank you. Yes, I will.”
*
Another week passed before Jane was declared well enough to be moved back to the great house. Jane did not know how Frank had managed it, but he had somehow hidden their absence from the neighbours thus far. She was carried there on a pallet and felt almost as though she were a young rajah. Amey and Nkiruka accompanied them, with a promise from Jane and Vincent that they could leave at any time they wished. Dark smoke stains marred the stones of the great house, but their apartments had been cleaned and restored for their use.
One of the things that had been impressed upon them was that not every slave on the island knew about Picknee Town. The rebellion in 1736 had failed because one of the enslaved had boasted carelessly. So there was a council that carefully selected who was trusted with the knowledge of its exact location. Steady rumours placed it as being in a series of caves accessible from Devil’s Bridge, on the opposite end of Antigua, while contradictory rumours said that it was an old wives’ tale and did not exist at all. The planters tended to be of the latter opinion since, of course, it was not possible for the slaves to do something so organised and clever.
This careful secrecy meant that only those closest to Amey had known that she was in Picknee Town, though not necessarily where it was. They had put it about that she had been close to death, but had recovered, and in the chaos after the fire, her return went largely without comment. Which was fortunate, as Jane had much need of her assistance.
Jane had an uncomfortable familiarity with being able to go only between their bedchamber and the blue parlour. This time, however, her domain was expanded to include the nursery. The room next to theirs had been converted, and Isabella and Charles settled there. What was most remarkable to Jane was how much more pleasant and inviting the house was, now that she was not dreading what lay on the far end of the building.
She was sitting in the blue parlour making some notes to herself when Vincent arrived with Frank, as she had requested. Jane wiped her pen clean and smiled at the gentlemen. “I have a proposal.”
They exchanged matched expressions of circumspection as they sat at the table opposite her.
“We were brought here on the pretext of Lord Verbury’s having a will in Antigua. I propose that we deliver one.” She slid her sheet of notes across the table to Vincent and Frank.
Vincent looked over the notes and immediately drew a sphere of silence around all of them. “This is a bold plan, Muse.”
“One of the chief advantages of being ill is that I have nothing to do but think, and I keep thinking about Picknee Town. It seems to me that it will always be at risk so long as the land is in white hands. The ‘ravine’ makes it useless land, so I see no reason why the Hamilton family should object if Lord Verbury chose to leave that plot of land to Frank. Amey tells me that there is precedent of other owners leaving land to their children.”
“And the deeds of transfer for Frank’s mother, wife, and children? That is a significant number of slaves for the estate to part with.”
“Yes, but the least expensive route. Freeing them would be the right course of action, but not one that would be believed, I think.”
Frank shook his head. “You are thinking my mother would draw this up.”